The Book of the Ler

by M. A. Foster

  Kaldherman said, “Dangerous then, is it? To you, but not so to us?”

  The Perwathwiy looked away, to the sun, now clearing the branches of the trees and casting a golden morning light into the yard below the yos. Then she looked back. “Of course there can be danger to you. Possible. But certain if, for example, I walk through the Institute gate into the outside. But then, there is danger in all things; even an innocent trip to the outhouse can be full of perils: witness the uncut root in the pathway of the Derens.”

  Fellirian said, “Come now. We ask specifics, and in return receive the parables of a hermetic philosopher, which in this case we all know as well as you. Especially the famous root, which is not the peril of the Derens so much as a pet of Morlenden’s. Speak straightly or not at all: danger or not?”

  She answered, “Yes.” But her answer was framed in a quiet and suddenly respectful voice. Fellirian was a person of regard even in the circles in which the Perwathwiy moved, both for reasons widely known and for some not so well-known, and she well knew them both. “Yes, it is so. Very likely. The one whom you will seek was an adept, one of us. You will have to be discreet . . . indeed, secretive would not be the wrong wordings-way of it. And of what you uncover, you will speak of it to none, save in whispers among yourselves. And you will make your report to the Reven, who will correct you if you have gone astray too far. And you must start soon, for yesterday is almost too late. We have tarried overlong, and I admit the responsibility.”

  Morlenden sensed a sudden weakness, but he did not let her off, but pursued her, his hard, angular face becoming harsh, his voice keen and peremptory. “We are not armored knights as the humans of old, to set out on fearsome horses to the ends of the Earth. We know this little reservation to be a large place when one must cover it on foot, and look under every sparkleberry bush. And the outside?”

  “Say I that the ends of the Earth may well not be limit enough. If we are too late, it could be to the ends of the universe. . . . But say it so now: will you do this thing? The price alone should convince you of our seriousness. It is the largest sum in our history ever paid for anything.”

  Fellirian asked shrewdly, “Will we be here to collect it? And having collected it, can we survive it?”

  The Perwathwiy looked at her directly. “To the first, yes. To the second . . . only you know the answer to that.”

  She said no more, and to emphasize the point, withdrew a little from the group, and turned away to contemplate the waters of the creek. Sanjirmil also turned away. The message of these gestures was not lost on them. As poor as the data was, now they had to decide based upon it. They moved back, instinctively, closer to the yos, and spoke in whispers among themselves.

  At first, they defined basic positions each of them held, to begin the discussion. Cannialin was against it, calmly but openly apprehensive. Kaldherman was mocking and skeptical, openly hostile. They could refuse it, and he knew it. His vote was for sending the old woman back with a head ringing with vulgar instructions, most of which would be impossible for her to assume anyway. Fellirian was suspicious, but also carrying the reverse of the coin of suspicion, the obverse of curiosity. She sensed what difficulty it had been for one of the proud and distant Dragonfly Lodge to walk in humility halfway across the reservation, and start a sequence in motion which would certainly lead to the Derens being included in one of the arcane secrets of the Gameplayers. She did not know if she really wanted to know. But there was no denying the old woman’s desperation. Nor the importance of the matter. One could not imagine what would bring them to offer so much—for the finding of a person. What had this person done? What had happened?

  Morlenden, at first against it, shifted to favoring the proposal, and even argued for it. But he remained almost as hostile as Kaldherman, mentioning many reservations, so that they could all evaluate and decide cleanly. While they talked, he glanced in the direction of Sanjirmil and the Perwathwiy, trying to read something in their faces, derive some little hint of it. But the faces were blank and empty. Once Morlenden had seen pictures in a book, statues carved by humans on some empty and faraway isle. Easter Island. Their faces looked like that. Empty, fixed on the level horizon of the endless sea, terrifying in their impassivity. Rather, the Perwathwiy’s. Sanjirmil showed the same, but it was only a veneer, and underneath there was too much. Panic, desperation, fear? He could not guess. She would not meet his eyes, would give no sign, not even of recognition.

  He knew that they knew. The Derens could refuse this, even though the Revens were involved, because in the language of the proposal, the word had been thaydh . . . a quest, not a mission. A hope, not a command. But even if they had commanded, they had little enough power to enforce it without the support of the Derens, for outside pure physical punishments, the main penalty was disenfranchisement, and one could not disenfranchise the franchisers themselves. . . . He looked back to Sanjirmil. He saw only the haughty, arrogant face, with its sharp angles and thin lines. Strong and predatory. The dark olive of her skin, her deep eyes, framed in deep black hair, long for an adolescent, now considerably below ear level, with its bluish highlights in the sun. He turned his attention back to the group, where the tide had turned in favor of the proposal of Perwathwiy. They did not accept it gladly, or enthusiastically. But they agreed in the end to do it.

  Fellirian left the group and walked to where the Perwathwiy was standing, apart, by the creek, formally, as befitted the head of Braid, speaking for the Braid. She said, “We will do it. Rathaydhoya. We will go questing.” She had deliberately configured her assent as a verb of motion, transforming the noun thaydh thus so there would be no mistaking what she thought of it. Perwathwiy nodded, agreeing with Fellirian’s selection of words. Verb of motion, indeed, it would be, before they were through with it.

  There were no formalities, no speeches, and there was no particular change in the face of the elder. Indeed, if anything, there seemed to be regrets on the face of the Perwathwiy. Upon Sanjirmil’s face, there appeared most briefly something too swift, a grimace, a shiver of revulsion, perhaps, but it was too swift to be sure. It was gone before any of them could read it. Morlenden, who had seen that face better and closer than any of them, saw nothing familiar in it, but something alien for a moment, then taken away.

  Perwathwiy spoke. “Then, good, although it pains me. You will be paid in full upon completion. Delivery or report. Now I must return to Dragonfly and report to the Gathering, the Dark Council. Here is the packet. Good hunting.”

  She turned and began walking briskly toward the shed where she had left her meager parcel of worldly traveling goods. Sanjirmil broke and ran, suddenly, like a frightened animal, to the yos to gather her own things, racing up the stairs. Almost immediately she reappeared, ran breathlessly down the stairs, and took off after the Perwathwiy, who had already started out along the path upward. Catching up with the elder, the younger girl turned back only once, and fixed Morlenden with another odd expression on her face, an intent stare, blended with the odd scanning visage of her eyes, which the older Players seemed to lose. But whether it was an expression of sorrow, regret, or perhaps anger, he could not tell. They walked over the top of the path and behind the ridge, and then they were gone. . . .

  Fellirian held the packet—containing what? She said thoughtfully, “You know, I got the idea they personally did not want us to take this. Especially that Sanjirmil.”

  Morlenden agreed. “I as well. All the more reason why we should take it,” he added gruffly.

  Fellirian said, “I think Mor and I should look at this and decide some things now, at least start the work. Do you all agree?”

  Kaldherman said, “Fine with me.” Cannialin nodded assent. And added mischievously, “Call me when Perwathwiy’s danger shows up. I’ll bring my chicken-splitting knife.” This was not completely in jest, for she was fearsomely handy with the narrow blade with which she dispatched the Braid fowls. The two of them climbed the stairs and went into the yos.


  Fellirian exhaled deeply, and opened the packet. Inside there was a slip of paper, bearing one word. A name; in childish, almost rude capital letters: MAELLENKLETH. That was all. Nothing else. No honorific, to determine sex; no Braid name to determine family line. Fellirian muttered to herself and handed the slip to Morlenden.

  He took the slip from her and squinted at it owlishly for a moment, as if expecting it to talk to him. He looked at Fellirian, then said, “Female, insibling, Braid Perklaren. Right, Klandorh?” She nodded. “We’ll check, of course. I want to review everything about this one, but I believe that’s the one. Adolescent, as I recall.”

  Fellirian agreed. “About twenty. I know her, but not well. She spent some time at the Institute, same as I. Somewhere down in Research. I have no idea what she did. But we should look up all the facts, make sure. I want to see if we can . . . see what we’re getting into.”

  “Agreed. Shall we start today?”

  “You heard the Perwathwiy even as I. Are you up to it?”

  “You bet. She was agitated enough. Let’s see what we have here.”

  The recordium was in a third sleeper built into the yos of the Derens, being added on between the children’s sleeper and the one of the parent generation. It was not on a higher level than the hearthroom, as were the real sleepers, but lower, in fact mostly underground, reached by a short companionway delving downward. It was also the only place in the yos where there was a door. A locked one. Inside, there were standing shelves of small and large ledgers, roll-racks containing various scrolls, charts of Braidholds, flowery family trees, all recorded more or less alike, according to what was being recorded, but embellished by the individualisms of three hundred years and more of Derens, each with different talents and desires to apply to the problem. There Morlenden rummaged absentmindedly among the shelves and racks, humming an aimless song to himself, while Fellirian held the lantern. There was a musty odor of old paper and dust in the air.

  “Hm . . . dum de dum de dum . . . m-hm! Yes. Here it is! I think,” he said, pulling out a large, rather new volume, opening it, and leafing through the pages, stopping at last, following down the page with his middle finger, still half talking to himself, which was a habit of his that infuriated Fellirian. He ruminated. “. . . May, Maen . . . yes, Mael. Mael Len-Kleth, ‘Apple-skin scent,’ aspect Sanh, Water. Born in the summer, yes, here it is, Human Calendar, 2530, July fifth. Let’s see, the generation-totem is . . . right, here it is, way over here.” He looked aside at Fellirian. “Who did this record? Everything’s out of place, all strewn over the page. Never mind, I can find it. Generation-totem is Muth, Condor. They all use birds for totems, eh? That is the last one shown.”

  Fellirian said, “Yes, that’s the last one. And what’s to prevent them from using birds for generation-totems? We use the names of the trees for the Derens and no one questions it.”

  “Nothing, nothing. But it just seems odd, that’s all, especially since they stick to it so rigidly. Does that go all the way back?”

  “I believe it does. The Terklarens, too. There is a letter of agreement in there somewhere, where they agree to use different sequences, so they won’t have the same totem in use at the same time in both Braids.”

  “What I mean is why the symbolism of birds? We use the symbolism of trees because that’s where we get paper from, from the plantation back over the hill. But what the hell do birds have to do with Gameplaying?”

  “Well, how should I know, Morlenden? We don’t have any say in it. They choose what they wish.”

  “I was just asking, was all. You said, ‘last one.’ What was that?”

  “I remember now, there was something out of sorts with that generation. Like two female insiblings. The other one’s name was Mevsomething. It will be in the Braidbook. MevLarnan, perhaps. I’m not sure. I didn’t make the entry. I heard Kadh’Elagi talking about it once, but I really wasn’t listening to him.”

  Morenden replaced the ledger on its shelf, carefully. Then he turned to another shelf, bearing others, rummaged again for a time, but now not absentminded, instead rather more intent. He found the volume quickly. On the spine, the name PERKLAREN was labeled neatly. Per Klarh (Gh)en. Earth aspect, he assumed—thinking of the popular association of the name: the Gameplayers.

  Of course, any root word in Singlespeech had at least four meanings, mostly according to aspect, and many had more than that. Something tugged at Morlenden’s mind, the totem of birds that had bothered him a moment ago. The root klarh- was no different. “Play,” as with some game, was only one of its meanings. Earth aspect. In Fire aspect, the root meant “Fly,” whence the association of birds. . . . Nothing connected. Insects also flew, and bats as well, and, for the matter, airships and the like, and they could have used those as well. Odd people, those Players, all of them. Secretive and eccentric. He let the speculation go. There was certainly more to the Player Braids than wordplay on the meaning of names, which few took seriously anymore, even those professionally interested in it. And what did they do, anyway? They alone had no functional relationship with anybody else—just with each other, although they did some barter for various things. All they had to do was play their Game in public, several times a year, and contribute to an elaborate discipline called Gamethink, which no one outside their environment knew or cared anything about.

  Morlenden supposed some took an interest in it, but he never had. It was interesting enough, the Game, if somewhat too abstract for Morlenden’s tastes, and Fellirian’s as well. Cannialin he knew to be totally ignorant of it; on the other hand, Kaldherman had been known to cast wagers upon Game outcomes. But since weaving into the Deren household, he had kept his vice at bay, or concealed. And he was sure that Kal knew no more about it than he did, however well he had followed it in the past. That was just it—even those who followed it knew little about it. They saw patterns developing, upon a screen, controlled by some, while others tried to disrupt the emerging pattern and its stable afterimages.

  It was also generally known that at most times the Perklarens were favored to win, save in unusually bad years, but the Terklarens seemed to collect the most spectator support. They drew their strengths from the crowd, as it were, while the Perklarens played from some unknown interior élan. Humans from outside sometimes attended the major tourneys, but Morlenden suspected that they followed it no better than the ler spectators.

  He returned to the ledger he held in his hands. In the Perklaren Braidbook, he quickly located the most recent generation page, the last entries. The position of Nerh, elder outsibling, of the adolescent generation, was filled by a Klervondaf, Tlanh. The Thes was also Tlanh, listed as one Taskellan. The insiblings were both Srith, so listed as Maellenkleth Srith and Mevlannen Srith. A large asterisk was scrawled alongside their names in the margins, along with note, apparently in Berlargir’s hand, to the effect that special attention should be paid here, as if nothing intervened, these girls would be the last bearers of the Perklaren name.

  Morlenden looked at the entry again, then turned and showed it to Fellirian. He said, “Now wait. This Maellenkleth we have to locate: She is a First-player insibling, but her Braid is terminating. And she also goes down to the Institute? How much of this does Vance know?”

  “Hardly anything, I imagine. She only substituted for me once or twice. He would know that she worked in Research, when she came at all. She was never a regular. Remember, Vance is one of their pure management types: prefers not to get involved with the technicians, as they say. Now, Morlenden, don’t look at me like I wasn’t all here; that’s the way they do things down there.”

  Morlenden’s mind suddenly went off along another tangent, the manner of human management theory suddenly laid aside. “What was it she did in Research?”

  “Its full name is Research and Development. Something to do with space flight, I think.”

  “What interest could she have in that? Unless it’s all more of this traditional Player eccentricity. Or terminal generation l
unacy. Now there is truly erratic behavior.”

  He placed the Perklaren ledger back on its shelf, abstracted and thoughtful. For a long time he remained in that position, one hand on the shelf, the other reflectively scratching his chin, his eyes focused off somewhere in empty space.

  Finally he said, “I don’t think we’re going to find much of her inside. She’s got to be outside somewhere. It makes it a lot harder: that’s a big world out there if we have to do the looking. Do those folk have some sort of tracing system?”

  “Well, yes, they do. A fearsome great thing, too. But it can be beaten, if one is willing to go to some trouble, and do without. I could beat it easily.”

  “You know it well. But how much could she know?”

  “Why do you think outside?”

  “If she was an everyday sort of a person, very much like you and I, she would remain inside, like the rest of us. What reason do we have? But she’s missing, and for some time. Remember the Perwathwiy—‘Yesterday may have been too late to start.’ And they can’t find her—which means they’ve looked inside, themselves, in the places where she might be expected to be. And they wasted a lot of time doing it, too, yes? But she’s missing, and obviously important for such a price.”

  “Very well, I follow and agree so far. But someone still has to start inside.”

  “Oh, yes. If for nothing else than to find out something about her. I don’t even know what she looks like.”

  “I can give you a Multispeech image of her, but it’s not a good one, because as you know I am not that good at Multispeech, and also because I never saw her closely, or paid much attention to her. You have to get a good image. I suppose what I could transmit to you wouldn’t distinguish her from Sanjirmil.”